Stronger
by akissandacloak
Summary: Sansa has destroyed the Boltons and taken back Winterfell, now a ruin, with the help of her brother Jon and her unlikely ally, Harry the Heir. She is known as fierce, yet just, cold, but not unkind. She did not spare Petyr Baelish. She did not spare Theon Greyjoy. SanSan!
1. Chapter 1

She has given him the room that once belonged to her mother. This room, she thinks, is the heart of Winterfell. The hot springs irrigate throughout the walls of her home, like so many veins bringing the warmth necessary for life, but here, this room… this is where the heat breaks to sigh. She hopes it might breathe life back into him.

It has been a fortnight since her men found his body. He was face down in the snow, they said. They saw him before he fell, great and lumbering. "If he had not fallen, my lady, I would have thought him a Wight."

_I would not have,_ she thinks. _Jon will not let them get so far. And I could never think him anyone but who he is…_

She does not know how her men will react to the truth of her actions. Sansa has heard the whispers. They believe this to be a classic act of Stark honor. _Our Queen is cold, but she is just. Our Queen is the Queen of Winter, but she is not cruel._ They think she means to kill him once he is conscious enough to understand that he must die. They think she nurses him now to give him the chance to confess his crimes, to let him walk with the pride of a man who has faced his sins to Lady's gravestone, the stone their Queen in the North now uses for executions. As she gave this grace to Theon Greyjoy, they think she means to give it to Sandor Clegane.

And in some ways, they are right.

:::

"His fever has broken," Maester Samwell tells her. "And he tries to speak from time to time."

Sansa's small fingers are stroking the scarless side of his face and he does feel much cooler. She cannot help it; a small smile crosses her lips. She already knew that he tries to speak. From time to time, he seemed to dream, and he would let out a grunt or begin to scream. Sitting beside him, she would smooth his hair back and try to shush him, to soothe him. On good days, his groans would give way to gentler moans or piteous sighs. On the bad days, she lifts his face to her breast, hoping to bury the screams that will leave them as not to alarm her household. No matter what, it alarmed her. It tore at her heart and left her broken. All this time she had convinced herself he was what made her braver in King's Landing, yet here, in Winterfell, he felt like weakness.

"Do you think he will recover fully, Sam?" Sansa had never felt right calling him Maester. He was a Maester, that's true, one of the very best, Jon assured her, but his kind nature made Sansa love him as a brother and a friend. How could she call him Maester? Samwell was so genuinely Samwell.

"It is hard to say, your Grace. That leg of his… I don't know how he was wandering around on that at all, to be perfectly honest. It doesn't make any sense! I suppose if he can manage that, he can manage anything. I'll certainly do everything in my powers to help him."

"You say it as if I mean to keep him around."

"Well… you do, don't you? I mean, I've no right to assume… you're my queen. The queen can do as she pleases, but I think you mean to see him live. If... if not… I… I 'spose I could help with that, too, that is why Jon sent me, to serve you-"

"No, Sam… I… I do mean to keep him." Laughing, Sansa feels the Hound's forehead with the back of her hand. Clammy skin should not bring her so much joy, but it seemed that he would live.

Sansa felt Samwell Tarly's plump hand on her shoulder. "I still say you saved him, Sansa," he whispered. "I know it weighed hard on you, but letting me cauterize that cut through his shoulder… that saved him, I believe."

"Thank you." Sansa bowed her head and closed her eyes as Sam left her, hoping the tears that threatened to spill over would stay._ I thought I had mastered the art of tears, but since he has been here… _

She remembered the way Sandor Clegane had come to her again. It was snowing hard and fast and the granite floor was icing over. She was dressed in a grey dress, fashioned with the cloth roses she once made as a girl, the sleeves lined by white fur that she'd taken from the bits of clothing they'd found in the ruins of the Great Keep, white fur that had once warmed Arya and Bran and Rickon, a cloak that once belonged to Robb fastened around her, dressed for mourning, for remembrance, and for rebuilding. There were men, formerly sworn to the Boltons, kneeling before her, begging for her mercy. She had called them forth to find out if any of them could truly be loyal to her, or could at least be useful in the absence of a trusted castellan to help her; the Great Keep, though still strong, had been damaged here and there by the burning, and Sansa hoped that the Great Hall and her mother's Sept might be rebuilt to house those who would ordinarily depend on Winter's Town in this harsh time, and quickly. The matters at hand were pertinent, dire, and dear to Sansa's heart, but for some reason, she had been staring at the oak and iron door, the damage done to it by the fire obvious, the wood weakened and stripped, but somehow still standing…

And just like that, the double doors burst open. Harry the Heir leapt in front of her, drawing his sword, but Sansa grabbed his arm, "No…"

Four of her strongest men, struggling to hold him up, drug him into the ruins of her home. Sansa could not see his face, but knew him by his hands, his strong, gentle hands… Sandor Clegane murmured two words before succumbing to the grueling pain and blood loss of the deep cut that threatened to split his left arm from his body, "Little Bird."

He had been unconscious ever since, except for the harrowing moments when Sam had taken fire to his arm. His eyes had shot open and he had tried to fight them off. Sansa had Harry and three of his men that he trusted to keep quiet stand by, for she expected this. They pinned him down and she turned his face away from the fire and made his eyes meet her own. She told him he was safe, she told him he was fine, and when nothing else would calm him, she began to sing.

_Six maids there were in a spring-fed pool… _

"_One was too lovely", spoke this fool, _

"_As I was watching, the girl fell down. _

_Cut her pretty knee, _

_And her face did frown." _

_A clean-cloak'ed knight too, was this fool, _

_Armored and armed, 'twas said, 'tis true. _

"_As I did help her, my walls fell down. _

_My heart then did flee,_

_My fate 'twas pronounced."_

And with that, Sandor Clegane, the Hound, ceased to struggle and closed his eyes.

"Sam…" Shaking off the memory, she turned to him, pleading with her eyes. Queen she may be, but she considered her Maester her family and it was not in her to command her family.

"Yes?"

"Could we give him a dream drought? I check on him in the night and he… I think he has terrible nightmares. He shakes and screams."

"Yes… I have heard it. It is terrible. I'll get something for him."  
Sansa gave Sam a nod and a smile, and then turned her attention back to the Hound. He let out a sigh, a soft, satisfied one as she fluffed the pillow behind him and tucked his blankets around him. She stood, smoothing out her dress. When she turned to leave, Sam was still standing in the doorway, staring at Sandor Clegane, a strange look in his eyes.

"Sam, what is it? If he is not truly well, tell me. Should I get him more blankets?"

"No, no, Sansa… no… I just… you have to wonder… what makes a big man like that scream out in the night."

:::


	2. Chapter 2

"Your sister… she is… she _was_ alive, that little bitch," he laughed then, roughly, sweetly. "Must've given her the worst haircut in the seven kingdoms…"

Sansa listened as Sandor Clegane told her of his time with Arya, the tale thrown out before her in hardly any order like pieces of a puzzle she'd thought she'd lost falling from the sky. She would not let herself acknowledge it, but it gave her a feeling of hope. _Arya never lacked for willpower_, she thought, thinking of the girl who skipped riding ponies and went straight to horses, the girl who walked with a wooden sword strapped to her hip with confidence when even Jon and Robb still walked awkwardly from the new weight, the girl who bit her tongue in concentration, trying desperately to embroider, even though she always proclaimed it "stupid". The Hound laughed often, thinking back on Arya, and it made her feel queerly. Arya was so real to him. To Sansa, she felt like nothing more than the horizon, a line she could move towards for all eternity and never reach, and yet, Arya was the ocean, too; Sansa could very easily drown in her thoughts of her too long lost sister. It would be easy to drown in them then and there, but she would not let that happen. If King's Landing had taught her anything it was how to put up that thin wall between herself and the full feeling of her emotion. This moment was about Sandor… He was sitting upright. He was speaking. He felt he needed to tell her this, so she would let him. No matter what path he had taken after the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, Sansa felt indebted to him. She was Queen now. This man was beneath her, yes, but he had saved her many times while he was in King's Landing and the memory of him had saved her countless times since then. So, here she sat, listening, even when the thought of Arya felt like a knife being twisted in her tummy, because she knew it was making him feel better.

When Sam had come to her, telling her that the Hound was awake and that he seemed to have his wits entirely, she had not believed him. She had expected it to all be a dream. Sansa had vowed to let the girl die, to let the woman be born, not even… the Queen, the Wolf… She had vowed to put the fanciful maiden who held Jeyne Poole's hand and her own breath as she looked at the world through the glow of golden curtains behind her forever. She had made the vow for the same reason most made vows; She thought she had no other choice. Sandor Clegane, for whatever reason, seemed the last thread on that life. When all of her dreams had come true, the tourney, the joust, the feast… a knight's favor, a prince's affections (however insincerely given)… he had been the constant spot in the room during the vertiginous dance, the light in the dark, the only truth in the romance that would be her ruin… He had been there to walk her to her chambers, to remind her that the world was awful, to tell her that monsters were real, and she, just a girl, incapable of understanding the world of pain inside of him, had comforted him. The horror that Sandor Clegane embodied had always pulled at Sansa's heartstrings, had always made her braver and bolder, and had always pulled the love and nurturing in her to the surface. There were pieces of that girl that Sansa would be loathe to lose, she realized, and those pieces had always reached out to the Lannister's dog. _He has not been their dog for years… Perhaps he is no dog at all…_

After listening to his tale, Sansa did believe that he intended to deliver her sister to her mother and brother. She was thankful that he had been there to curb Arya's willfulness. She could not decide which was more heart breaking, what could have happened to Arya without the Hound there or the fact that Arya was there at all, so close to being reunited with them, so close to tragedy, too close to convince herself that death was anything than horrible. Her chest was pounding; Gladdened by the news that Arya had lived so long, Sansa felt a smile try to creep across her face, but a small voice whispered to her,_ Is it truly good that Arya did not die in the arms of your mother and brother?_ Their bodies were horribly maimed, that is true, but Sansa was over that now. A body is not who a person is and there were worse things in life than death. Sansa had seen many of those things herself and her brief time reunited with Jeyne Poole and Theon Greyjoy had only solidified her belief that, sometimes, death was better.

"And how did you lose Arya?" Sansa felt a chill crawl up her spine as she said her sister's name.

"She left me. I was… I was in a bad way… wounded, weak, near death… I wanted her to kill me, to finish me off, but she wouldn't… said I didn't deserve mercy and, damn the girl to seven hells, she was right. I didn't deserve death. I didn't deserve to live. I deserved shit other than the pain I was in."

He seemed to look through her then, his eyes like two grey clouds passing her by in a distant sky, hinting at a storm behind them, but never letting lose their rains. There were a thousand questions she could ask, a thousand she wanted to ask, but she would not take from him. She would let him give. She wanted them to be, at least here in the heart of Winterfell, as equals. Her fingers, defiantly child-like despite all her living and growing, found themselves curled around one of his big, calloused hands, a thumb stroking a rare soft patch of skin where his palm dipped into wrist. "Here," he said softly, almost a whisper, his free hand indicating the upper thigh of the leg Sam was shocked he could use at all. "I was stabbed here. I was too drunk, too drunk for too long, even for me… but it's all I knew to do…"

He was quiet for a time, Sansa looking on him as he stared down. "I picked the wrong bloody inn." Sandor Clegane began to laugh, a sad, quiet laugh, and his eyes glittered. "At one inn, one fucking inn, I learned my brother was after me and… and you…"

He lifted his head then and his eyes found hers. "You… you married that man, that fucking imp… and he must've, I thought, he must've…" The Hound pulled his hand from between hers, tensed his fingers, and then seemed to reach for something that wasn't there before dropping them onto his lap, balled into fists, his eyes closing.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. His grey eyes looked into her blue ones, deeply, more earnestly than anyone ever had. "I could never save you. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I was never good. I was never good enough."

She tried to reach out to him, to make contact and let him know she cared as she had those few times before, to smooth his brow as she had been for weeks now, and he flinched and pulled away. It hurt, though she understood. They were no longer the people they were in King's Landing, no longer a bird and a dog in the prettiest of cages. Sansa folded her hands in her lap and looked towards the window. It would be impolite to look at him when he was distraught, to do something as intimate as see him when he did not even want to be touched by her.

"Sansa…"

"Yes?"

"You want to know what I'm doing here."

"Yes."

"I came to find you. When word reached me, where I was… I made my way here, to serve you, if you'll have me, to protect you, if you'll let me…"

"Oh."

"I could be good enough."

"I imagine anyone in Westeros would think the Hound good enough to guard them."

"I'm not the Hound anymore… I don't know what I am, but I'm no dog. Not to the Lannisters, not to anyone. I don't even care to be a bloody Clegane."

"What do you care to be?"

"Useful."

They sat for some moments in silence, until Sansa decided it time he was addressed by the queen in the north. "The Maester doesn't understand how you've been walking on that leg of yours, but I will trust you if you say it's fine. Your arm was cut so deeply that it was nearly ripped from your arm. I imagine it will be some time before you can use it, that is if it ever completely heals. You've been abed for over a fortnight. You will need assistance to rise and to find your legs, regain your strength. Four men will be at your service, always. Bastards and wayward sons; you'll like them. You can trust that they will keep quiet about anything that goes on whilst you heal. I say that you can, but I mean that you will. When you think you can manage it, you will take walks with me. Winterfell is my home, but there are wild wolves abound and I doubt they care that their better is my sigil. An escort would be wise, even an escort as lame and out of practice as you. Any man who wishes to serve me, may."

Sansa stood, hiding the enjoyment and enthrallment she found in the new expression she saw crossing his face. She smoothed her dress and turned to leave. As she opened the door, she could not help herself, "Clegane…"

"Yes. Yes… your… grace…"

She was thankful her back was to him, else he would see the laugh that danced in her eyes.

"It may be that you are a wolf."

:::

"I don't like him."

"You did say that, yes, Harry."

"I don't. I really don't. He swears. He swears all the time."

"You swear all the time."

"Yeah, but… you know, it's a charm thing for me. I… work… it."

Sansa was in the process of making quilt squares from some of Robb's old tunics. When she was too weary and disheartened to commit herself to ruling, she took refuge in the art of sewing. It was the easiest way to allow her to be sentimental for the family she lost. It was an excellent way to make her feel like she was accomplishing something, a quilt for this winter that seemed like it would never end, and the physical act of the thing settled her. Solutions came easier to her when she worked her fingers in this way. The ghosts of her family seemed contained in the good memories, the memories of home when she did this, and her parents, her brothers, her sister, Septa Mordane, Maester Luwin, Old Nan, Desmond, Jory, Fat Tom, even Hodor seemed to guide her to the next question she must answer for the good of the realm. On this day, her tranquility was being interrupted by the constant crunch of an apple. Harry had his boots on her desk, an act he knew very well she hated, and he was talking with his mouth full. He only meant to look out for her, and it was sweet, but she thought he was overreacting to the news that she and Sandor Clegane would make their first round of the grounds that afternoon. It was to be expected. Their relationship was one of brother and sister and Sansa knew that, had he ever really had the opportunity, Robb would've approached her suitors from every angle and questioned her endlessly on what she saw in them, how they made her feel, how they treated her, their honor, their abilities, their knowledge. This… this was the closest she'd ever get to knowing that feeling… so perhaps she should enjoy it… Thinking of it that way made her sad; there was a laxity in Harry's nature that Robb never had and Harry had never taken stories and honor as seriously as Robb. It was a silly thing to miss; Honor had destroyed her family and a fellow in ideals did not make them any more attainable.

Silly or no, thinking of how Robb would respond to her taking a walk on the grounds with a man, a man like Sandor Clegane, stirred something in her and for a moment she thought the cloth toiled by her fingers had come alive with the smell of her brother again.

"Harry, may I remind you that I am queen…"

"Oh, piss on you, I know! I know! Gods, a man can't eat an apple with his queen?"

"The apple is the least of your offenses."

"Bloody hell, I have offenses?"

"Many."

He mocked her then. "Sansa, may I remind you-"

"I do not speak that way."

"You speak a bit that way… and don't interrupt. RUDE." He put on his "queen" voice once again. "As I was saying, regally, need I remind you that I was the first man to bend the knee?"

Sansa stood then and placed the quilt work on her chair. She crossed to Harry, ran a hand through his hair, and kissed him on his forehead. "No, you needn't remind me. I'll never forget."

Alayne was taken to him a mere month before they were to be betrothed. They dined together every night, Alayne watching him make eyes at one of her handmaidens, thrown back into the roll she had so unwillingly played for Tyrion, only know the part was to be played much more passionately. Littlefinger would not be pleased with cool courtesy and she did owe him so very much, or at least that is what Alayne had told herself…

The second week they were together, Harry had decided to teach her to hawk. She was certain he had meant to take his groom's gift, her maidenhead, a bit early. She had prepared herself for the humiliation and degradation of stripping down in the woods; it was known that he liked to take women during a hunt. The surprise that overcame her when Harry actually had a hawk and did not so much as kiss her cheek for the first three days was the best feeling she'd felt in a long time, the first time she'd dared to hope since Littlefinger had poisoned sweet Robert Arryn, not giving her so much as a warning that she'd awake with his corpse curled next to her in bed. He had seemed so sick that night, so unusually quiet, a different kind of weak…

_It is better this way, Alayne. Goodbyes are wretched and now everyone will believe your grief, our grief._ He had kissed her on the mouth. When he left her room, she threw up.

On the fourth day, they came to a small cabin and Harry led her inside. Removing her cloak, he did kiss her then, lightly on the forehead.

"Sansa…"

She had stood, steel, cold, listening to Harry explain all he knew, listening to him seemingly sympathize with the North, listening to the story of how he had once been madly in love with a Karstark girl who gave him a son, but then left him for another man, some hedgeknight or other, leaving him to raise a babe, trying to ignore the sickness that swam in her belly when he spoke of them "doing their duty", but him expecting no more than she was willing to give, feeling the slightest bit of shock when he told her, bold faced, that he had no intention of being loyal to her bed, but he would be always kind to her and to their children.

And when he had brought a white peregrine falcon to her and placed it onto her arm, she had started to cry, but still she did not move. She wanted so badly to believe she had a friend, but knew better than to trust. Alayne would've told Petyr, at least part of the story, but she was Sansa Stark, after all, and she knew much better. She waited for her wedding day, to see which plan would work, and it was the one she devised with Harry. She had stated her claim for Winterfell, had Littlefinger chained, and Harry the Heir was the first man to bend the knee, discarding his own cloak for one with the Stark sigil, with _her_ sigil.

Harry's hand on her wrist brought her back to the here and now. "Apple?"

He shoved it, half eaten, towards her mouth. She leaned in and took a bite, the juice dripping down her chin and onto his hair. She may as well enjoy the fruit while they still had it. "Ugh, you could've taken it from my hand, woman! Now my hair is all sticky!"

Sansa laughed as she finished chewing and left her study, calling behind her as she went, "See to it that the men from the Bolton camp are hard at work. These grounds will not walk themselves!"

A half-laugh, half-grunt chased her from the room and she thought she heard the sound of an apple flying against the door as it closed.

:::


	3. Chapter 3

She could tell that it troubled Sandor, appearing weak in front of her. She read the frustration and fear in his body language and, as his queen, she extended her arm. No man refuses the arm of the queen. Her chivalry gave him leave to lean on her for support. They walked through the Great Keep in silence, Sansa finally speaking when they came to the smoke-stained, fire-damaged door of the Great Hall, the iron looking like a special kind of Northern filigree in the marked wood.

"If you are not ready to walk so far…?"

"I'm fine."

And, letting her go for only a moment, Sandor Clegane pushed the door open, holding it for her, taking her hand and helping her step out onto the icy stones at the foot of the door.

She led him north and they walked in silence for many paces, Sansa observing Sandor, how he pulled his cloak tighter about him, not accustomed to the cold. Sansa did not have her hood up. She liked the chill that reddened her ears, the snow that fell and then melted in her hair, which was a darker copper than it had been when she was in King's Landing. The cold she did not suffer, but she was having trouble walking the grounds. Foolishly, she had chosen a delicately heeled boot; Sansa approached this walk as an occasion to dress for, though she could not say why. Steadying herself, she wrapped her arm tighter around his and placed a hand on his bicep. He took in a deep breath. "Does this bother you?"

"No."

"Good."

Their silence resumed, Sansa stopping to make note of damages done to the East Gate. It would hold against any casual intruders, but she did not like the look of it. It faced the Kingsroad and would be dangerous if somehow Stannis were to march on it in the middle of the night. Sansa had watchers along the Kingsroad and along Winterfell's walls, yes, but the men she counted on were men once loyal to her father, men once loyal to Jon Arryn, men indebted to her brother Jon, men hungry for revenge on the Freys, men from the camps of those who had betrayed her, desperate to live. They were tired, weak, angry, and they were not truly hers. It would be foolish to trust them even in a thing as simple as keeping watch. In winter, men belong to their desperate bellies, to their cold hands. If she could keep them alive through this, they may someday belong to her, but not today.

Stannis Baratheon held the Barrowlands, Barrowton and Torrhen's Square being his, along with what remained of Moat Cailin. His forces were not great in number and their resolve was weakening, but it still would not do to have the walls of Winterfell breached. Men loyal to Baratheon had run on her as soon as she raised her banners in White Harbor. He might have defeated her, but by guilt or by love or by loyalty, the North men who had declared for Stannis after the murder of her brother Robb left him to serve the daughter of Eddard Stark and instead she was victorious. Sansa found it strange that her father could exist so vividly in the memory of those he was only lord to… they did not know Eddard the father, Eddard the husband, Eddard the storyteller, Eddard who gave the warmest hugs in the still-cold of the chamber she shared with Arya so long ago… yes, Sansa found it strange that they could love him by that face alone, so she counted herself lucky. The red wolf, they had called her, and they had bent the knee. Their she-wolf could have destroyed Stannis, but she let him go. She had tried to treat with him twice since then, to no avail. Sansa did not want the south. Even if she did, it was not important now. Winter was no longer coming, it was here, and it was so very important that the people be united, under one ruler or under two. _The cold kills and should the White Walkers make it past the wall again…_ the Baratheon pride was as fierce in Stannis as it had been in Robert and Renly and though less vibrant it was no less stubborn. Sansa had hoped he would thank her for her mercy, that he would be grateful to her for destroying the Boltons, but that was not so. Pride leads the armies of men, Sansa knew that now. It had been her first lesson as queen. Her second had come when two of Stannis' men delivered Theon Greyjoy to her door. Stannis thought her womanly heart would be moved by the gesture and that in good faith she would bend the knee to him, bend the knee and bring him thousands of North men and men of the Vale, bend the knee and give him back the North mountain clans her brother had helped him to ally. Stannis thought wrong.

"Are you alright, Little Bird?"

Sandor's voice pulled her out of her head and back into the cold. "Yes… yes, I am alright. It is hard to be queen, that is all."

"I _am_ here to help you… I _will_ help you," he rasped, his voice colored by both determination and desperation.

Sansa began to laugh. It was an offer she had once dreamed of, an offer she was using as an excuse to let the Lannister's dog live on, an offer that, before he said it aloud just now, had touched her heart and made the memory of their interactions in King's Landing glow and swirl like never before, but now, in the harsh light of day, in the unforgiving cold of the North, it made her laugh. He looked at her, the familiar sneer covering his face for the first time since they'd been reunited again. That only made Sansa laugh harder. _An angry dog and a mad bird once more._

"I am sorry, forgive me," she spoke through the laughter, wiping tears from her eyes. "It is just… what could you possibly do?"

He let fly a harsh laugh. "I…"

"No, no, do not answer that. I'm being horrible, but I just… I just can't stop laughing."

And so she kept laughing, to the point of clutching her gut and bending, to the point of needing to lean against the stone wall of Winterfell, feeling worse as more and more anger grew on Sandor's face.

"I know I'm not as strong as I used to be, but I did risk my life to get here!"

His sudden roar silenced her, but only for a moment. She let out a guffaw before saying, "So did I."

Sandor took in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring, and turned away from her. Sansa collected herself and leaned against the cold wall for support.

"I am sorry… how do you mean to help?" Sansa bit her lip trying to hold back the giggle that threatened to escape. _It is horrible, truly, all of this, who we were, who we are, how dead I feel… but can't he see how funny it is_?

He turned back to her and Sansa knew she'd been caught. "Fuck you, _girl_." He spit and began to walk away from her, surprisingly fast considering his state, but Sansa supposed long legs did help. Even free of injury, she doubted she could catch up to his long strides with any ease and she herself was considered tall.

"Is that how you speak to your queen?"

"That is how I speak to a giggling child," he yelled back at her, not looking, and then she was chasing after him.

"You do not get to walk away from me!"

"Seems I do."

"I am the Queen in the North! You live by my mercy alone! You have promised to help me!"

He turned then and Sansa bumped into him, almost falling back, but a strong hand grabbed her by the cloak and set her upright. He leaned his face down to hers, still holding onto her cloak, and bellowed inches from her face, "And you have laughed in my face! But thank the gods you're not too cowardly to look at it anymore!"

He walked away from her again and she stood, stunned, for some moments before she was after him again. "You would hold that against me?"

Sandor didn't answer. He merely growled. He was slowing down now, clutching at his arm. Sansa could see past his anger and see that he was hurt, hurt physically, hurt emotionally, but she could not find it in her to be kind. She caught up and looked up at him as they walked, her heel sinking into the snow, making her footing unsure and awkward. "There are things I could hold _against_ _you_! Sandor! I could… I could."

He snorted and sped up again. Sansa was shaking with anger. The blush was running hot up her face, so hot that she could feel it happening. She realized her hands were gripped tight into tiny fists. She charged after him, but then Sansa stopped. _If he wants to go, I'll let him. _Leave him to the questions, the ridicule, perhaps even the violence he would meet upon returning to the Great Hall without her. Sansa recalled the riot he had saved her from, how easily he had torn that man's arm from his body, and suddenly she felt very bad for the Northmen who would try him in her absence. Putting her people over her pride, she decided to catch up with him once again, but she would not spare him.

"You didn't save me." It came out not as a yell, but as a low growl, a tone that surprised herself.

"What in seven hells are you on about?"

"I… I had thought you would… do you know how I left King's Landing?"

"Heard you turned into a wolf with wings and flew off, but I'm more like to believe the scheming Littlefinger version of the tale."

"He was behind it, yes. But it was Ser Dontos."

He slowed then, so it was easy for her to match his strides. "That fool?"

"Yes."

Sandor laughed. "I never took him for a bad man, but not a good one either."

"You were right. He was being paid. But _he_ helped me. He said he meant to be my Florian." Angry tears welled behind her eyelids and Sansa let out a sharp cry of laughter.

"Gods, you and-"

"He left a note on my pillow… telling me to meet him in the Godswood… it was unsigned, of course."

"Of course." He stopped walking and turned her to him, his large hand pleasantly heavy on her shoulder and she felt the anger melt like so much snow covering the hard ice of suffering and sadness. "What is this about, Little bird? What?"

"I… I had thought… hoped it was you… and it wasn't…"

They looked at each other then, really looked at each other. _His eyes are the same grey as the sky_. Night had begun to fall around them, but the glow that snow brings still hung on the air, fading the deep, clear blue of the day to a still grey. His eyes glittered in the setting sun and Sansa did not even balk at the way the glare emphasized the grotesque scars that covered his face and throat. He pulled her cloak back over her shoulders and clasped it more firmly. She could scream at him some more. She could tell him to leave. She could have him executed for his crimes. She could ask him why he let them beat her, ask him why he did not take her kicking and screaming out of the Keep, before Tyrion could leave her burdened with pity and hatred, before Littlefinger could pry her mouth open with his tongue, before poor Sweet Robin… but Sansa knew that, truly, none of it was his fault. The special place in her heart she bore for him she bore because she knew that, sharp steel and strong arms or no, he was just as trapped as she was.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For not saving you."

"Other men did."

"No… what they've done to you… no."

Sansa stepped closer to him and placed her hands on his chest. "There were prices I had to pay… but… I'm _free_ now…"

Tears slid from her eyes against her desire. Sandor wiped them away. "No, Little bird, don't do that now…"

She stepped back and regained her composure. He continued speaking, still softly. "I remember when I realized I was free… it hurts."

She nodded.

"I can listen, Sansa. That I can do."

"If I tell you… there are things that will make you ashamed of me-"

"NO." The boom of his voice made her jump. "I… I would _never_ blame you, for anything, anything you did, anything done to you. You didn't choose _any _of this. The first time I spoke to you I knew you didn't decide a damn thing."

He held her by the chin and pulled her face to his. She had never seen so much kindness in his eyes. She could not recall the last time anyone had looked at her so kindly… and Sansa realized, as a chill ran up her spine, that he was looking at her. _He can see me_. It was not pity for the last wolf of Winterfell. It was not devotion to her father, happy to have found a purpose again. It was not fear of winter seeking out the red wolf. It was not desperation clinging to the fresh hope of the Queen in the North. It was Sandor Clegane looking into the eyes of Sansa Stark and _feeling_ for her, feeling anything for her. Sansa lost herself then and she wept, quiet and clean, turning her back to him. After a time, she felt Sandor step behind her and pull her back against his chest. He couldn't see her face, but she covered it anyway. She felt his kindness and so, for the first time since her father had died, Sansa felt everything. The truth came pouring out of her, a chaotic list of the weights she bore.

"They have Rickon… the Manderlys… they got him back, safe and sound… and...to have them swear to me I had to leave him as a ward… and he… he remembered me… oh gods… but I could not see him… they tell me he is well, wild, but well… but I cannot see him… because I am not strong enough not to take him home, I know it…

I killed Theon Greyjoy. He taught me to lace my boots and I killed him. He sometimes carried me to my chambers when I fell asleep in father's chair by the fire… and I let Harry cut off his head… He was my dear, sweet Robb's best friend, his brother… my brother… and he betrayed him, but he was so broken… and I killed him…

I killed Littlefinger. Petyr Baelish, who loved my mother… once… who saved me… but only after he destroyed my family… I killed him, too. I chained him and made him walk North, made him believe he could talk and promise his way back into my heart… but I knew, _I knew_ I was going to end him. I just wanted him to feel terror…

And I am horrible. I am glad. And there is so much more _vengeance_ that I want. But I have to be smart. I have to be smart… and… and I have to keep playing this game, I never meant to play this game, oh gods."

And somehow, she had curled into him. And then, he had picked her up and was carrying her, carrying her as she struggled to breathe through the cries she had held inside of her for years, her full grown weight still nothing to him, not even with a lame leg and a newly wounded arm that may never heal. He was silent, but she took comfort in it. It was not the cold she felt in the Eyrie. It was the still cold nights when her mother would brush her hair for the longest, the still cold of a chamber that held Arya's laughter and hugs from her father, the still cold night that invited mischief from her brothers and Theon. Sansa realized they were close to the gate.

"Put me down now. I won't have my people see me like this."

And, her head held high, Sandor Clegane silently behind her, holding her secrets where he had only moments before held her, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, walked back inside the walls of Winterfell, the walls of her home, and she smiled and nodded to the men who a mere month before had served Ramsay Bolton and had no doubt hoped to see her dead. After all, Sansa Stark, was a queen, first of her name, and Queens did not cry. At least not where people could see.


	4. Chapter 4

She was writing another letter to Stannis. She would send the letter with Torghen Flint, simply called "The Flint" by those loyal to him of the Northern mountain clans, a man Stannis had come to trust as much as he trusted any man who was not Davos, brave Davos who died to bring Rickon home, just one in a list of tragedies Rickon's new life had been privy to. The Flint had gone to Stannis when Sansa raised her banners and begged him to align himself with the Queen in the North, the daughter of Eddard Stark who had lived and died by honor, but not before telling Stannis the truth of Robert and the children who were not his. Stannis had called Sansa "just another usurper" and promised to give the Flint clan and any who would join them to the lord of the light when his armies were stronger and they could be a priority. Sentimental was not a word that any would use to describe Stannis Baratheon, but Sansa hoped that what the clans once meant to him, how they must have seemed like the key to his reign and the hope it must've brought him might spur him to listen to The Flint. _Women may rule as fiercely as men, but war is a man's game_.

Stannis Baratheon may never bend the knee to her, or leave her the North at the least, this Sansa knew, but neither would he be able to break into the walls of Winterfell. Repairs and rebuilds had gone exceptionally well. The men she had taken from the Boltons seemed truly glad of her as the weeks had passed and worked diligently. Sansa took no pride in this; only the gods knew what kind of leader Ramsay Bolton had been. They may be glad to be led by Mad Aerys reborn at this point. Sansa heard tales of what he did to his men, even those who escaped such fates as Theon's, but she dare not ask. If someone wished to confide, as the queen, of course, she would listen, but Sansa had enough horror stories of her own. She needn't add more. Sansa found that she could no longer focus on the letter to Stannis. For now, she set it aside and sifted through the pile of ravens Samwell had left for her to see to personally. She could leave all of the ravens to him, she knew._ I'd be happy to do it, Sansa, to make this any easier for you. You've had a hard time of it,_ he said. Sansa knew that Samwell meant it, but some matters, she thought, some matters a queen must see to directly. One of those matters was Rickon Stark.

Lord Manderly sent her updates regularly. Part of her was glad of it, but part of her wished the updates would cease. Every word of Rickon twisted in her stomach like a knife… she felt such guilt, thinking on his days spent alive and alone, none of his family with him, how he had been held down and forced to eat Osha, the wildling woman who had come to care for him, the son of Winterfell reduced to rags, finding solace in riding his direwolf and commanding a hoard of cannibals, ripped from that, forced back into civilization… _And oh, how civilized we are_, Sansa laughed. Taking a deep breath, she opened the letter.

_To my Queen,_

_Rickon's behavior, in most respects, improves daily. He still takes a breakfast of rare meats and insists on eating upon the floor with his direwolf, but he has been more agreeable with dinner, dining at the table with the others, even making it through most of a meal with guests of honor to Lord Manderly's table without a fit, though he did throw his soup at the end._

_We are having trouble keeping the direwolf under control. He howls uncontrollably some nights and we fear it disturbs your brother's rest, as he is always found in a cold sweat when this happens. The little lord refuses to sleep in a room without his pet, however, so we do not know what to do. Our kennel master refuses to approach the thing. It did kill three of his best dogs on respective nights after he tried to train him. The wolf will not hunt without your brother and sometimes he returns with blood upon his mouth. We fear he may never be truly civilized if he is allowed, as he calls it, "Shaggydog", to stay with him. Lord Manderly tried to sit the boy down himself and explain these things to him. Your brother did then bite him and proclaim over and over, "You are not my father, my father is a ghost"._

_Your grace, have you any notes on how to train direwolves? You did have one for a short time, we know, and your brother, the late King in the North, may the Old Gods give him peace, did find a great ally in his Greywind. We wish that this could be so for Rickon, but we are at a loss._

_Lord Manderly wishes to extend another invitation to you to see your brother. He thinks it would only help._

_Your servant ever,_

_Septa Dylann_

Sansa should have been horrified, she knew, but she had to laugh. Through the good and the bad, the Starks were who they had always been. _Could there be a more genuine family in all the history of Westeros?_ This is what had gotten them killed, she knew, what had made her family nearly extinct, but she loved it all the same. She felt a fierce pride rise inside her. _Winter is coming_, she thought, and then, _No, Winter is here. And the wolves are rising, however broken_. Sansa would have to find a way to tell this sweet Septa that under no circumstances could she separate Rickon from Shaggydog. Through every trial Skagos had presented, Rickon's wolf had stayed faithful to him, as faithful as Lady would have stayed to her, she had no doubt, had Cersei not taken Lady away from her. It may have been mere remnants of foolish, child-like musings, but Sansa felt certain that tragedy only befell the Starks harder once they were separated from their wolves. She moved on to the next raven. Samwell had written on the outer side Of Great Import. She turned it over and felt a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Already broken by Sam, but still clear, was the green seal, flecked with bits of gold, of a rose, a rose that could only belong to House Tyrell.

House Tyrell had only recently taken themselves from the palm of the Lannisters. Mace had reacted foolishly in the wake of gaining another crippled son. The forces of his armies were impressive and he had saved Margaery from Cersei's schemes, but he did not destroy the Lannisters entirely. She might thank him for backing them into the corner that was the Red Keep if she were simple enough not to realize that he could have destroyed them entirely with a bit of tact and grace. The Tyrells now held Casterly Rock and the Clegane Keep. It was rumored that they held Jaime Lannister prisoner in one of these houses, but both the Tyrells and the Lannisters were eerily silent about his true whereabouts. A feeling of disgust came over her as the golden flecks in the green wax caught the sunlight that came in through her slightly ajar window. The Tyrells had meant for her to die, to take the fall for Joffrey's death, after they had shown her kindness only to use the horror she lived through as information… they had aided Littlefinger in further destroying her family… She felt hungover from the hope she had once felt at their arrival, the love she had felt for Margaery, even the fleeting, childish love she had felt for Loras, the imagined love she had been willing to feel for Willas… and to think she once thought Margaery the sister she never had, a perfect and fierce lady. _Oh, how I'd love nothing more than to leave her to Arya_. She put Sansa away and donned the face of the Queen in the North. No one was in her room to see, but she found it helped to pretend all the same. _Will I ever stop pretending?_ She opened the letter.

_To my lady, Sansa of House Stark, the Queen in the North,_

_I reach out to you, a man formerly aligned with the deplorable house of Lannister, humbly and with greatest hope that you might show mercy and meet my house in an alliance. The North is the rightful seat of your family, descended from the First Men, beloved of the Old Gods, and I would raise my banners to solidify your claim. You may face the winter winds of the North and I will manage the new snows in the South and together, we will be prosperous. It plagues me to inform you of the loss of my son, Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, who fought ever nobly in all he did, in the name of the fallen King, Renly Baratheon, though at times it was perhaps unaligned with the favor of your family. For any move that prolonged your suffering, you have my humble apology, and my vow to never wrong you again. Cersei Lannister, that most condemnable of women, did wilt the Knight of Flowers in a trial by battle with her champion, Ser Robert Strong, a knight whose lineage no one seems able to trace, and who fights inhumanely and inhumanly. She did also move to destroy my sweet Margaery, but luckily we did escape. We returned later for justice._

_We have trapped the Lannisters in the Red Keep, taking Casterly Rock from underneath them, holding Jaime, the Kingslayer, Goldenhand, captive, and would move to destroy their family entirely, for surely Westeros will not know peace while Tywin and his cubs hold any chance of influence. I urge you, your most true and just grace, to join with me in the betterment of Westeros, in the disposal of the incestuous greed that is the lion's pride. If you would agree to this new friendship, I would ask that you take a step further and solidify this alliance, for the good of the realm, by joining the North and the South in marriage. My eldest son, Willas, who was so ready to marry you when you were in the lowest of states, would still gladly take your hand. If it would shame your grace to lead alongside a man not entirely able, my son Garlan is a widower, Lady Leonette having passed in childbirth, and might be more suitable to your grace's taste._

_Do take your time, my beloved Queen. An alliance and a marriage are heavy matters on the heart and the mind, I do know, but please send a raven if you would even think on it, to give House Tyrell and all of the South some hope to live on._

_With warmest regard,_

_Mace Tyrell_

:::

It was well into the night and Sansa was still reading the letter sent by Mace Tyrell, over and over, taking it paragraph by paragraph, line by line, word by word, laughing, crying, feeling nothing at all. Harry had told her this would happen. Pinching her waist, he had leaned in close to her face and brushing her hair aside, he whispered, in mock seduction, _all the great lords will come for you now, fiercer than they came for little Sansa Stark... The aspiring knaves will come with appetites worthy of a king_. She had smirked then, rolling her eyes at him, continuing to occupy herself with her stitching or perhaps her harp, whatever she had used that day to keep her hands busy, as if he had not said a word, as if the jest did not touch her at all. Deep down, she had always known he would be right, but she thought the reprieve from suitors might be longer. _It is different now. Men still long for me, for my beauty, and for my seat, but now… now I have power_. It was no matter. Her own words could not calm her. Sansa began to pace around the room, stopping to open a window and let in the cold Northern air, hoping the chill might ground and comfort her. And then a queer thing happened…

Sansa remembered the girl she used to be, a bird in a cage, turning to dreams to protect her from the realities of the Red Keep, and she remembered one dream in particular that she used to turn to… _Willas_, she whispered to the wind. She had thought Highgarden would save her. Willas, with his disfigured leg, was not the gallant knight she had dreamed of as a girl, but she had heard he was kind and smart. She had dreamed they'd sit together, puppies in their laps, and that she'd give him beautiful sons, sons who looked like her brothers, a girl who looked like Arya. In the madness of her life then, she would have been happy to leave and lead such a simple life. She was born and bred for such a life. _I wish that I could have that life_, she realized. A cry caught in her throat and she swallowed it down. But, oh, how sweet it would be to have sons, sons who could grow to be long-faced like Jon and Arya and her father, the late Eddard Stark, a man no man's honor had since matched. Sons who might grow to be as brave and beautiful as her brother Robb, or as clever and sportive as Bran, or as wild and free-spirited as Rickon. She may have daughters, too, daughters delicate and daring alike. _Would their eyes be the deep and clear Tully blue? Or would they be the melancholy and hooking grey of the Starks?_ Sansa did not know when she had sat down or how long the tears had been flowing down her face, but all at once she realized she had broken. That would not do. She allowed her sorrow to live the length of a few more gasps and one last round of tears and then she dried her eyes. Brushing her hands through her hair, she stood and headed toward her desk. With the letter from Mace Tyrell in her hand, she ventured into the hallway, looking for her friend, her companion. She was glad to see a slither of light from under Harry's door.

:::

Harry had been laughing for a very long time, so long that his face was beginning to turn red, and he could not stand up straight. Sansa found it incredibly obnoxious, but it was contagious, so she laughed too, until her belly ached, until for the second time that evening the tears began to stream down her face. "For the good of the realm," he roared again, throwing a fist in the air, and collapsing with laughter onto a chair in his sitting room. Sansa let out a loud cackle and wiped the tears caught in the corners of her eyes. Finally, a calm settled over them and they were quiet. In this moment, she was so glad of Harry. She could always count on him to make her laugh. "The incestuous greed of the lion's pride!" he called out and Sansa snorted and covered her face, the laughs returning uncontrollably.

"They do dabble in both of those things," she said through chokes of laughter. "Mace does not lie… well…"

Harry crossed the room to his flagon of wine and poured a cup for each of them. "Oh, no thank you, Harry, really…"

"You may as well, Sansa. Truly. Have a glass, woman!" He placed the goblet in her hand then brushed a finger over her nose. She squinched it up in response and took a drink. Giving her a look, the one that told her she best enjoy herself a bit, he crossed back to his chair and sat down. "I know you'll consider it."

"Yes."

"When did you read the letter?"

"This morning."

"Ah." They sat silently. Sansa swirled the wine in her cup and stared deep into it, as if all of the answers might lie there.

"Sansa…"

"Yes?"

"You know I will kill every man who knocks at your door, if need be."

"I know."

"Are you going to marry one of these Tyrells?"

"I do not know."

"Could it mean peace?"

Sansa swallowed hard and gulped down the wine before answering, "It could."

"Would you be happy?"

"It is no matter."

"Sansa, lis-"

"No, Harry, no… What matters are my people… my people, my father's people, and Robb's after him, the people who belong to no one who I have vowed to save… it matters if they are happy!"

"But what do you want?"

Sansa laughed. "Oh… Harry… I think we are well past that."

Before she could fight the vulnerability she felt his arms were around her. "Never," he whispered.

"I want what every stupid little girl wants, Harry," she said, her voice almost a whisper, afraid to confess aloud. "I want to love. I want to be loved. I want children, beautiful babies, and I want them to sit by the fire and listen to their father tell stories while I brush the tangles from their hair. I want them to see me with him and think that we are perfect, to think that every love story must be, at least a little, about us. I want what my parents had. I want what I was foolish enough to believe I would have! I want boys who compete with wooden swords and girls who fight over every little thing. I want a family, Harry. I want a family… and I want to mean it… I do not want my household to be a powerful Cyvasse piece. I want my household to be full of the love I used to feel within these walls!"

Sansa stood, pushing Harry away from her, and stood resting her hand on the side table, telling herself to be calm, but instead, her hand wrapped around the flagon and threw it on the ground, smashing it to bits.

"Sansa," Harry said, but the words he meant to follow with were never heard. From down the hall they heard screams… the screams of Sandor Clegane.

:::

"I'm on fire! I'm on fire! HELP ME!"

"No, you aren- SANSA NO! STAY BACK!"

"I'm burning!"

"You're mad is what you are, you're fucking mad!"

Sansa, tired of being thrown back by Harry, now stood in the corner, her limbs shaking, desperate to help, watching as Sandor thrashed about the room and Harry tried to reign him in. His screams were horrible, piteous things, things born of darkness, and it made Sansa feel as hopeless as she had in the first few days after her father was murdered. She had felt hopelessness over and over again, yes, but this was deeper, damp, pure…

Sandor was still screaming, _HELP ME, HELP ME_, over and over, and Harry was returning all manner of curses, trying to approach Sandor without being run down by him. He was plenty strong himself, but not a large man, only a few inches taller than Sansa, and slender, though well-muscled. Sansa could be silent and still no more and when she saw an opportunity, she took it. Harry was distracted as Sandor lumbered into a chair, knocking it over. She darted, bounding around them, and grabbed the flagon at Sandor's bedside. Before Harry's face could finish its turn from shock to the not unfamiliar expression of Sansa, what in seven hells are you doing, she threw the contents of the flagon onto Sandor and used the moment in which he was dazed to take his head in her hands and make him look at her.

"It's out now, I promise. See? Doesn't that feel much better?"

The fear on his face melted away and Sandor simply looked tired. Harry tried to pull Sansa away, but she knew that he would not harm her. She helped him to sit on his bed and she took his hand in her own. Recognition seemed to wash over him. He swallowed hard and looked around. His eyes then locked on hers. Exhaustion and confusion sat on

his brow as it would on a child's. "Sansa?"

"Yes. It's me."

"I was…"

"…having a nightmare?"

"Yes. Yes, I was."

"Must've been some bloody nightmare, friend," Harry supplied bitterly from the corner of the room. Sandor's eyes searched the room once again. He let out a growl, his jaw stiffening. "Did I… Did I wreck all of this?"

"'Fraid so," Harry supplied, more softly this time.

"Why in seven hells am I soaked with wine?"

Sansa looked up at him and laughed.

"What, girl?" She did not answer, only continued to giggle. Harry began to laugh as well.

"Your nightmare… you thought you were on fire… Harry could not calm you, so I… well, I put the fire out, Sandor," she finished, keeping her face and serious and still as she could manage. She heard Harry cackle behind her and she released a snort.

"Bugger the both of you," Sandor growled, but Sansa thought she saw the reminiscence of a smile along his lips. It placed a queer feeling in her stomach, a dip and float that she had felt descending the Eyrie. It was as if her heart were gasping and sighing, all at once. She was beginning to believe something he had told her on one of their walks. "The Hound is dead and buried," he had told her. "I don't know who Sandor Clegane is… but he isn't the

Hound…"

"Harry, leave us."

"What?"

"Leave us. Please."

"If that is your command…"

"It is."

"I won't hurt her," Sandor said. "I see that look, boy. I don't know what kind of fit I was having, but I'm free of it now. I'd never touch her."

Sansa feared she'd soon have what Harry called a pissing contest on her hands, but Harry simply sighed deeply in response. Biting the inside of his left cheek, he bowed. "Your grace."

Sansa mouthed the word go at him.

As the door shut, she spoke, "He only means to protect me."

"I know," Sandor said, growling. "I cannot say I blame him. I'd be wary of someone like me, too."

"I'm going to ask you something."

"Anything."

"What do you dream of?"

He turned from her then.

"These dreams of yours… they are getting no better. Perhaps if we knew what troubled you, we could find a way to help."

"I doubt that."

"Well... it may make you feel better to talk of it. It may ease your burden…"

Sandor simply shook his head.

"Humor me," Sansa said, bumping her shoulder into his. When he continued with his silence and his averted eyes, she said, "I am your queen, you know."

"I dream of _Gregor_," he said, his brother's name leaving his lips like a curse he promised to never utter again. "But more horrible than he ever was in life, if you can believe that."

His breathing deepened and his jaw went slack. He glanced upward, wide eyed, and Sansa saw that his grey eyes were clouded by moisture. Clearing his throat, he continued, "I'm in King's Landing again, in the Keep, and it's so bloody hot. And then I see it, the fire, coming towards me, and I try to turn and run, but I see it has surrounded me. I'm a boy again… and I feel Gregor's hands on me, but when I turn, it's not him at all… it's this man, a man I've never seen before. He's old and he looks so kind, but I don't trust him, not at all. I think… I think he must be a maester, he wears a chain, but the links start to fall from his neck and the man turns to dust and the links… they form huge pieces of steel, great white things, armor. The armor starts to move, but I can't see. The fire is so close and so hot that everything is distorted. I try to crawl away, but I feel steel hands clasped on my ankles. I'm pulled into the fire. The last thing I see is Cersei, more beautiful and more terrible than I've ever seen her, and the fire around her turns green. And then I have a sword, out of nowhere, a great sword, and Cersei screams, and my ankles are let loose, but I burn all the same."

The gasp and sigh that Sansa had felt within her at the sight of a near smile only moments ago now turned into a great weight. She knew what it was to be haunted. She smoothed his hair back and looked up into his eyes. "That must be terribly frightening."

"Yes."

"Do you think it means anything?"

"I hope not."

He did not look away from her any longer. Her fingers cupped his cheek and his hand found her wrist. For a moment, Sansa thought he meant to push her away, but instead his thumb gently caressed her inner wrist. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, curling her free hand into his soaked nightshirt. He kissed her forehead gently, something she did not expect, and it sent a chill down her spine. Sandor moved a hand to cup the small of her back and to pull her further into him and she let his scent intoxicate her; He smelled like warmth, something like cedar, like amber or perhaps leather, something that reminded her of her father, something that made her think of fields of wheat, and she realized she missed him. This was the closest she had been to him in months, the closest she had been to him since he had awakened. She had allowed herself to become so very intimate with him when he was just a memory come back to life, struggling to live in her mother's bed, and this was the first time that she wanted it with everything that he was, and she wanted it whole heartedly. Sansa could feel herself falling asleep and so she pulled back. "Are you alright, Little Bird?" Sandor asked.

"Yes… I… I should go to bed, I think."

"I'm sorry if I woke you."

"No… I hadn't slept yet."

"Are you having nightmares to," he asked with a laugh.

_Not this night_, she thought. "Oh, no. I was up reading a letter."

"Oh?"

"Yes. The Tyrells… they want an alliance."

"That's a good thing, yes?"

"Yes. Only… It is no matter. I should let you rest."

Sansa moved to leave, but he pulled her back down beside him. "Bugger my rest, girl. What is it?"

"There is always a price."

"Aye, and what's theirs?"

"Marriage."

Sansa saw a flash of angry in his eyes before he looked down. She pretended not to see and stood. "You should change. It won't do for you to catch cold."

"No, I suppose it won't," he said, turning his back to her, and removing his shirt.

Sansa turned and headed for the door. As it closed behind her, she felt sick.


	5. Chapter 5

From darkness, Sansa was sobbing uncontrollably, struggled attempts at breathing rattling her insides, her lungs close to bursting… _It hurts, it all hurts so terribly_. She had dug her nails deep into her mattress, that sensation the only thing that let her know where she was. _I am going to die, she thought, _over and over_, I am going to die, _and then, _No, no, I want to die, but he will make me live, he will make sure I live_. Her eyes were shut tight, she realized, and someone was speaking to her… hands gripped her shoulders and she screamed. Through her screams and through the fog, she heard him speak.

"Little bird, seven hells! It's okay, it's okay, it's okay."

_The Hound… Sandor is with me_. Her scream gave way to a long, low howl of anguish. She unclenched her fists long enough to wrap her arms around his neck, her nails digging into his nightshirt, and she hid her face in his chest. Almost silent now, her cries came in short bursts as she taught herself to breathe again. A candelabra sat on her bedside table, one Sandor must have been using in his room. Sansa thought it was the same candelabra that Arya had thrown at her once in one of her fits; She still had a tiny scar on top of her left foot from it. _Will anyone ever stop haunting me?_

"What happened, girl? What is it?"

Sandor did not press her when she did not respond. She felt as if a century had passed before she found it in her to lift her head and speak. "Littlefinger," she whispered, his name ending with a childish sniff of a sob she did not expect. She felt her face blush with shame. How foolish she was, to cling to this man she had no reason to trust, to fear a man dead by her own hand.

"Littlefinger?"

"I… I dreamed of him, it was only a dream, it must only have been a dream, but… but…"

"…it felt real."

"Yes."

She began to cry again. Sansa pulled away from him and wrapped her arms around herself. Gently, Sandor brushed her hair back and pushed her over. "Just lie down. There you are."

The softness of the pillows beneath her head was welcome and she realized how exhausted she was from the dream. "Would you lie with me?"

The weight of his body on the bed was her answer.

He turned on his side, mirroring her. "What do _you_ dream of, Little bird?"

Firelight danced across his face. Sansa looked down, at the profiled shadow of their faces, so close together, and she decided to trust him. _Or at least I could pretend to trust…_

"Petyr Baelish gave me many gifts. But they came at a price." Sansa heard the voice leave her body, the cold one, the one that always surprised her, the one she had developed over years of not knowing who she was or what she should feel.

"He is dead now. I had him executed. I did not swing the sword, but I looked him in the eye as he screamed my name… or…" Sansa felt the flutter come back in her chest and the cry crawl up her throat, but she steeled herself. "Alayne. He called me Alayne. _Alayne, my sweet girl_. His final words."

She had hoped he would say something, anything, to stop her from speaking. He only listened. His silence was warm and comforting. She let herself sink into it. "He would not take my maidenhead, no… We needed that. But he did say that I had to learn to keep a man's affections, especially a man like Harrold Hardyng, renowned debaucher. And I believed him…"

Anger grew inside of her, almost overwhelmed her. _It is frightening, and yet..._ Sansa had a strange love for moments like these; the confused cacophony of affection, pity, and guilt that surrounded Petyr Baelish in her mind was deafening, exhausting. How rich it was when the fierce symphony of anger could drown it out! Warm tears ran down her face, but she did not care.

"I had no choice but to believe him. I had seen the way Robert Baratheon behaved. I had seen what it did to Cersei, Cersei who must not have been unlike me once… And I heard a voice in the back of my head, in the back of _Alayne_'s head, the voice of Sansa Stark. It is not honorable… but who had ever lived to speak of how honorable they were? It is not what I wanted… but when had Sansa Stark ever gotten what she wanted," Sansa was close to snarling and felt like spitting. "Only once, only once, and _that... was..._ _Joffrey_… and Alayne was a bastard, _I_ was a bastard, baseborn, so my wants meant naught."

Sansa was shaking now. Rage and disgust made a hollow thing of her stomach and she bit her lip until it bled. "And so I dream of him. Of the times when I was so disgusted with it that he had to hold me down. Of the times when I was so accustomed to it I felt nothing at all. Of the times when I approached it like a scholar, like it was a lesson being taught to me by Septa Mordane long ago in Winterfell and I just wanted to do the best, to make my teacher proud…"

Curling into herself, she closed her eyes tight, but the tears continued to fall. She felt Sandor's hand squeeze one of hers tight. That made it worse. She began to sob.

"I don't…" She was choking on her own tears. "I don't want you to think…"

He pulled her to him, wrapping an arm around her, cautiously.

"I don't want you to think that… oh gods! I am a _horrid_ thing."

"Nonsense. You're a beautiful thing. And you forgave _me_. And I'm the worst of _anyone_ here."

Sansa tried to catch her breath, tried to pull herself back from the dark place, to feel again. She was eventually aware of the weight of his arms around her and she felt real again. Broken, worn, and used, but real.

"I do not know which is worse, Sandor… That sometimes I let him call me Cat… or that sometimes… sometimes I even enjoyed it."

Sansa cried so hard that she ceased to make a sound. Her face was buried in his neck, his hand buried in her hair, the other rubbing her back, and like this, she fell asleep.

:::

"You have men to fight and die _for_ you."

"I know this, Harry."

"Then why do this?"

"The Stark women have a history of wielding swords an-

"And a history of getting themselves in trouble. I know that is not the reason."

"I would feel safer if I thought I might stand a chance on my own, that is all. And I believe the time will come when I must swing the sword myself and it will come soon. The Tyrells escaped with Margaery safe, with Jaime held captive, but Cersei did not lose. And what if some of Stannis' men meant to take me in the night?"

"I wouldn't let that happen."

"You would not like it to happen, Harry, but you are not all knowing. It could happen."

Harry scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"This is bigger than me. Or you. Or him. We will need to start training everyone. Now that Winterfell is, in the basest sense, rebuilt, and now that they have food in their bellies and warm fires to sleep beside, the real fighting begins. We will not be able to sit here forever. You will be captain of my guards, if you can stop being pig headed long enough to make me guards," Sansa said, giving him a smile.

"Sansa… me? I… I will not let you down."

"Oh, I know," Sansa smiled. She was gladdened to see Harry was so touched, though she could not read his face exactly. There was something deeper than honor there. _Does he still not know how much I value him?_ "Please, do not feel so moved. I am about to anger you. I mean to name Sandor my sworn shield…"

"Oh, truly, you cannot be serio-"

"AND." Sansa waited for Harry to stop swearing and start listening. "…and… I think it best that my sworn shield know what he is doing. The Hound was a fearsome warrior, a ruthless killer. The Hound's arm was not nearly hacked off and he did not have a chunk missing from one of his thighs. The Hound was almost an entirely separate person from the man Sandor Clegane who now lives here with us. He has not told me all of his time on the Quiet Isle, but I do know there were no swords there. He needs to regain his strength."

Harry moved to speak, then stopped himself, throwing one hand up in defeat, the other brushing through his sandy curls before landing on his hip. "Very well. I will assist Sandor Clegane… THE HOUND… A CLEGANE… A MAN WHO WAS SWORN TO LANNISTERS," Harry shouted histrionically, then, seeing the look on Sansa's face, one hand returned to his hip, and the other rubbed his forehead, eyes closed. "Yes, right, I'll help him help you. Together, we will teach you to wield a bloody sword."

"Thank you."

"Oh, you're welcome, your Grace, I am at your bidding," Harry said in melodramatic mockery.

Sansa laughed, "Harry… I know you do not trust him, but trust me. Trust _me_. As I trust you."

"You trust me?"

"Yes. I do."

He smiled then. "I am glad of it."

"You have earned it." Sansa crossed and hugged him. Harry lazily threw an arm around her shoulders.

"I am moved by my queen's affections, I really am, but I have things to do. Important things. I am the captain of the guard, you know!"

"Alright… Go away."

:::

Sansa awoke, sore and still exhausted. She reached for the goblet of water she kept at her bedside and winced; A dull and heavy ache took grip of her shoulders and yawned hot through her breasts and down to her forearms. The cold water filled her mouth and quenched her thirst, yet still the movement required did not seem worth the pain. It was too taxing to cross to her window, but Sansa noted that no light yet seeped under her curtains. She eased herself back down onto her pillows and tried to return to her dreams, but the previous day's event filled her head.

She had stood in the yard with Sandor at her side, feeling quite foolish. She realized she could not properly learn anything in her gowns, so she had donned a pair of Harry's breeches. They were unpleasantly snug on the hips and she did not feel so comfortable in them as she did in her own clothes. Sandor had given her a smirk when she first joined him in the yard, but when she questioned it, he would say nothing. Harry approached them from the smith. He tossed one at Sansa and it clattered at her feet.

"Right, you were supposed to catch that." He turned to Sandor, "I figured you were happy to keep using the sword they found you with, tarnished as it is."

"I am a man of sentiment."

Sansa picked her sword up off of the ground. It was a simple thing, but lovely. The handle was knobbed and her fingers gripped easily around it's shape. Along the blade, it was engraved: Lady. Reading that, she sighed, and looked up to find Harry giving her a playful grin.

"Lady?"

"I thought you might like that. Good sword needs a good name. How does it feel?"

"I... I expected it to be heavier."

Harry laughed, "Yes. I made this with you in mind. Best not get arrogant and go grabbing this gentleman's weapon," he had tapped Sandor's sword with his own, to which Sandor had given a small, disapproving snort. "You may very well dislocate your shoulder... Now."

He jumped back. And there, her lessons had begun.

Sansa rolled onto her side and looked at her sword, snug in its sheath, mounted on the wall. She did not realize she was smiling until her cheeks ached. There was a safety in knowing how to wield a sword, however badly. She could not help but think that Arya would have been proud of her. Childishly, Sansa let herself imagine her father's smile, the love-addled grin that he usually reserved for some antic of Arya's, or some prank of her older brothers, Jon and Robb, even Theon, a smile he gave when he should have given reproach, a smile he never gave to her. The ache of Eddard Stark was a different ache from her fresher wounds. It was the first blow to her innocence; Sansa did not understand pain then. The tragedies that followed almost made sense to her, the grief felt like an old friend. The loss of her father did not hold the context of war and vengeance and stolen life the way the other strikes against her did. She simply missed him.

The Queen in the North did not have time to ache, physically, emotionally, on any level at all. Here in her bed, soft and warm, lined with pillows and fur, she was only Sansa Stark. And for today, she would let herself be just that. The room she slept in was the one she slept in as a girl. She had shared it with Arya until she was ten. Robb would sometimes sit with them and hold their hands while Old Nan told them scary stories, and later, when Bran was little and daring and scared by Old Nan's latest tale (which he undoubtedly had begged for), he would come into Sansa's room and she would cuddle him to sleep, sometimes Rickon, too. Her mother would brush her hair here, every single night. Through all that had happened, nothing had tarnished how very at home she felt in this room. The window closest to her bed looked out what remained of the kennels. Sansa hoped that one day she could tear down the barricade and build it proper again, fill it with pups. The barking of dogs had felt like home long before she loved the howl of her wolf. Sleep had almost taken her once more, but again, yesterday came creeping in.

_Sansa_.

He had said her name, after knocking her to the ground. Harry had told them to now turn on one another. She told Sandor over and over not to go easy on her. He started to listen; She started to fall. Sandor grabbed her wrist and tried to steady her, but in juggling her, the weight of the sword became too much for his newly healed shoulder. He threw it down, but began to fall himself. All that was left was for him to shift his weight so that he landed first and broke Sansa's fall. The collision had been hard. Sansa felt her lip split and well up, eyes shut tight.. She placed her hands on the ground and pushed herself to rest on her wrists. A pain pulsed through her head. When she opened her eyes, Sandor Clegane was looking into them. She tried to brush her hair back as he asked, "Did I hurt you?"

"You broke my fall. Did I hurt _you_?"

He had not answered. He had only tucked the loose strands of her hair behind her ear and brushed the blood from her lip with his thumb. Had his thumb brushed over her lip once more and then lingered a moment? Or did she only imagine that now? She had closed her eyes again as his hand came to grasp her chin. The blood pulsed back into her ears when Harry pulled her off of Sandor, leaving him on the cold ground.

Sansa rolled onto her back, returning to the memory of his thumb on her lip, his hand holding her chin. She could easily have lost herself in it, the way she had felt so very close to him. In fact, she tried to play the memory over and over in her mind, to let it grow, to give herself over to delusion the way she used to, just for now, just for today, just until she could ease back into sleep, but the look on Harry's face when he had walked her to Sam's chambers so that he might tend to her welts and bruises made it hard to enjoy any of it. He had not said a word, unusual for him, but she had sensed his anger. _But why?_

The queen in the north left her bed and got dressed. She had to decide what to do with the Tyrells, what was to be done if Stannis refused her offer of peace, yet again. She had to think of marriage and of war. She did not have time to think on Sandor or on Harry. She had to let the girl die and let the woman, the queen be born.

:::

Sansa had spent the night in the Godswood, praying to the Old Gods, the gods she envisioned with her father's face. It had become clear long ago that she would never have the family she dreamed of as a girl, only she did not realize she still held hope. What did she hope for? She could not say. Perhaps she hoped the gods might tell her to follow her heart. Perhaps she wanted them to strike her fancies down, once and for all. They did neither; The cold wind blew, the leaves rustled, her heart continued breaking. Standing, she placed a hand on the face of the heart tree, along the brow. It seemed worn and tired. It seemed to want comfort. _Was the heart tree young once? Young like I was? _A chill ran through her and the wind seemed to whisper, _yes, yes, long ago_. She turned and caught her reflection in the dark pool at her feet. _The red wolf,_ she laughed to herself. _Why, I look only a woman_. A rustling to her right: an unkindness of ravens had landed on the branches, she found the disparity of their black bodies against the vibrant red of the heart tree and the comforting whiteness of the snow unsettling. _Dark wings, dark words._ She did not lift her skirts as she left the godswood. Sansa was already covered with snow and she thought it fitting. The queen of winter, with snowflakes in her auburn hair...

Resigning the foreboding gifted by the ravens to the back of her mind, Sansa walked to the glass gardens. Sam had made certain that they were repaired and that planting began immediately (the glass gardens would be expanded soon, larger than they ever were before). It comforted her to see blooms, not only of food, but of the roses and peonies Sam had planted simply to make her happy. She had thought it foolish at the time, but it did lift her spirits. Her glad sigh left a sheet of fog as she pressed her hand to the cold glass and blurred a blue rose from her sight.. Before she could wipe it all away, something else caught her eye: Sam. He was walking towards her from his quarters, through the remnants of the kennels (she had seen no point in rebuilding them; the dogs had joined the wild wolves or else been eaten by them long before she came home), stirring up long settled ashes as he came. The cheer that was custom for Sam was nowhere on his face. A bit of parchment was in his hands. Sansa knew that this was why the unkindness had come to her. _The Old Gods had spoken after all. I was only too foolish to hear it._

Sometime later she stood in her father's solar (_my solar, I must remember, it is my solar now_), reading Stannis' words.

_To the Lady Lannister,_

_I had hoped my disregard for your previous letters might communicate my stance well enough, but I see there was no hope for that. Women know nothing of war. You proved this much by sending a traitor to me. Had he not come under flag of peace, I would have given Torghen Flint to the Lord of the Light. I am a just man and would have honored your brother Rickon's claim to Winterfell, but you saw fit to seek power for yourself and you reach too high. The Iron Throne is mine by rights. I mean to take it or to die trying. I will not rule over a split kingdom to appease the wants of a broken woman. The admiration of the people will soon wane. They are chasing the ghost of Eddard Stark. The people love you no more than they love me. The Barrowlands are mine, as is the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. I do not care for the reasons of your refusal to acknowledge me, or for your excuses, or for your sentimentalities. Words are wind, Lady Lannister. _

_Stannis Baratheon, the First of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhonar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Lord of These Seven Kingdoms_

With a scoff, Sansa flung the letter on the table.

"Did you read this, Flint?"

"Not much for readin', Little Ned,,. but I was in the room as he... what is the word? Dictated it."

"Very well. Sam, read it."

Sam looked at Sansa with questioning eyes, but picked the parchment up all the same and began to read. Sansa thought she could feel his inner monologue begin to stammer. She turned to look out of the window, pressing her face to the icy window pane. Her brain was humming. She closed her eyes and wondered if her father had ever lain his head against this very window comfort, and felt a rain of sorrow wash over her as she realized Robb never did. As she waited for Sam to read, she began to giggle, and then to chortle.

"Sansa... ehm... your grace?"

"Yes, Sam," she said, one hand bracing the window, the other clutching her side, trying to calm her laughter.

"I've read it now."

"Good, good, Sam." She covered her mouth as she turned to face them. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and calmed herself. "And what do we think?"

"I... I don't... I wish he would have accepted the peace terms."

"Yes."

"I... I don't know what else to say, Sansa."

A smile spread across Sansa's face. It was bitter and broken and bright.

Torghen Flint spoke up, "I got a thought or two, if the queen'll hear it."

Sansa leaned against the window ledge, gripping it with her hands. She gave him a nod, "Please."

"You look done with this Stannis."

Sansa nodded, crossing her arms..

"He has no men. And the few he does have, they're good as dead. He's a fool and he's in your way."

"Yes."

"This is war. Go make war."

Sansa had nothing to say to that. When she had sacked the Freys at the Twins while her Uncle Brynden took back Riverrun from Freys and Lannisters, her conscience had had no objection. They had wronged her family, undoubtedly. They had gone above and beyond the usual griefs of war and violated all manner of courtesy and decency. _Stannis Baratheon never harmed a Stark_. Sansa bit her lip. _That is the girl speaking,_ she told herself. _He would harm a Stark. He will_.

"Sam... could you find Harry for me?"

"Of course."

As he headed for the door, she called after him. "And Sam... Sandor, too."

"Yes. I'll get them both." He closed the door behind him.

She paced for a few moments, as Torghen Flint sat, looking not at her, but at the stone cold floor, his large hands wrapped around the head of his cane. Finally, she stood her ground and turned to face him. Clearing her throat, she smoothed out the front of her dress before dropping her arms to her sides, her thumbs wrapped inside her fist, the blood to them cut off by her own irritated grip. Her shoulders back, she raised her head.

"I have not marched on Stannis because I had hoped for peace. I had hoped for peace because I have seen enough people die to last me a lifetime."

"Yes," the Flint nodded.

"If I do not move, Stannis will not think of this will he?"

"I would bet not. Bet he thinks you weak. Bet he thinks you _know_ you're a usurper."

"I am _no_ usurper!"

"I didn't say you were."

"The North needs me. _Me!_ Not Stannis Baratheon, his _claim_, his _right_ be damned," Sansa was shaking now. She wanted to pace again, but she made herself stay put, braced herself. "The North does not love Stannis, look what it has done to him. His men-"

"His men are few and far between."

"...they are cold and hungry."

"They are dying."

"And why? For Stannis' pride? I would save them. I would feed them all, I would keep them warm, even Stannis, who has caused me so much strife. There is no room for pride in winter!"

"And you know of winter? You ready for winter, Little Ned? You, barely grown?"

"Winter is in my bones. I am more than a daughter of the north, I am more than a lady of Winterfell. I _am_ winter. I should have died long ago! Many thought I had! But all along, I was there... in the lion's den... under Alayne... I was Sansa Stark! The blood of Winterfell is in my veins. I am the daughter of Eddard Stark, descended from the first men! But I am my mother's daughter, too! A river runs through me!"

"You are Tully painted, that's so, but your heart... your heart is all direwolf. That's what the people need. That's what you have to make sure they know."

"I am...," Sansa laughed a free laugh, tears spilling from her eyes. "I am wolf hearted. I am a she-wolf, the red-wolf, _their_ red-wolf," she said, pointing out, towards the great hall, towards the guest houses, where the smallfolk had taken shelter. "Who will care for the North if not me? They forget... Torghen, they forget... I was _born_ in winter. I am the one and only direwolf born to winter. And it does not matter how many times I dream of spring, I am _destined_... _destined_... for winter."

Sam had returned and now entered the solar, Harry and Sandor behind him. She looked over them all, then back to Torghen. "I am done with him."

"Then end it, Little Ned. If't could be done, I'd march on him me self. And be glad to."

She looked to Harry then. "Master at arms," she said, her voice booming with life she did not know she had.

"Your grace," he said, a queer look in his eye, seeming to Sansa astonishment mixed with something else she could not name.

"When can my men be ready? I have a war to fight and I mean to fight it soon."

"The Barrowlands? Sansa... your grace... Stannis?"

"Yes. Stannis."

"How... how many men do you ne-"

"Not many," the Flint said, matter-of-factly.

"Is a fortnight enough time?" Sansa asked.

"I think so."

"I need you to _know_, Harry."

"Yes. Yes, it's enough time."

"Good, you're dismissed. Sam."

"Yes?"

"Send a raven telling the Tyrells I plan to continue my attempts at peace with Stannis and that I have Mormont allies who plan to cover them by sea. See to it that the raven drops it. Send archers to follow close behind, do _whatever_ it is you do with those birds, make it happen. In three days time, send a letter asking the Tyrells to hurry their response, so that I might solidify a marriage. Make sure it is similarly dropped. A week from now you're to send the real letter. The Tyrells are to meet me at the Twins once I've taken back the Barrowlands. If they found Edmure, we will ride back to Winterfell together and further discuss our alliance and my betrothal. If not, well... there will be other matters to discuss."

Sam and Harry both looked at her, wide eyed.

"Am I not your queen?"

Both men let loose stammers of "yes, ehm.." and "of course, your grace, of course..."

Sansa gave them a smile, "Very well then. You've royal business to attend to. _Go._" She turned now to Torghen, who had begun walking towards her, making good strides for an old man with a cane. "Flint."

"Little Ned."

"I know that the mountain clans have never cared for the practices or politics of court. You have my deep gratitude for leading your people to me, for helping me to reclaim Winterfell. I do not expect you or your men to risk their lives again. You have shelter within the walls of Winterfell as long as you want or need it. I only ask that you all continue to rebuild the castle and to keep it safe. I will not ask you to leave it and fight my war."

"I liked your father."

"Yes. But Flint... I am not my father."

"No. But you're smarter," he said as he placed a great, gnarled hand on her upper arm and gave her a kind rub. "Prettier, too. You lived. You made it. You've a good heart and you serve your people. And I'll fight for you."

Sansa was alone in the solar but for the whispering wind, the high sun's light, and Sandor Clegane. She had closed the door behind the Flint and so there was little space between them.

"The North will be yours."

"Yes." She looked up at him.

"The South, too, it seems. By your _husband_, if not else."

"I suppose that is true."

"You'll have it all." He stepped away from her, crossing to look out of the window. His broad frame almost blocked it entirely from view. The sunlight shone straight upon him and his shadow spread across the length of the solar. Sansa was lost in his silhouette. The golden light could not touch her and only then did she realize how stifling the heat from the rays had been.

"I did not want it all," she said, missing the comfort that came with reading his grey eyes, the twitch of his mouth, the tension in his brow.

"No?"

"No."

He continued to stare out onto the grounds. Sansa watched him, saw his head drop down and his shoulders slump, his hand pressed to the glass. She move to stand at his side. He jerked away from her when she placed a hand on the middle of his back. Embarrassed, hurt, she pulled her hand back, intertwining it with the other in front of her.

"You sent for me?"

"I did," she said, almost whispering, angry with him for pulling away, for so swiftly rejecting her comfort. It felt like a punishment.

"And how may I serve _your grace_?"

Angry tears touched at the back of Sansa's eyes at the tone. "However I see fit, Clegane. I am your Queen."

"I bloody well know that."

"Then watch your tone!" She turned from him, but before she could storm away, she felt his hand, not ungently, grasp her wrist.

"How may I serve you," he asked, softly this time, sighing.

She turned to face him, doing her best to make her Tully blue eyes turn to steel so she might cut him with her gaze.

Sandor looked down at the ground and slid his hand from her wrist to clasp her fingers, his thumb rubbing gently over her knuckles for a moment (or did she imagine that?) before letting the limb drop. Her glare did not leave him and she found herself further frustrated when he did not swell and rage at her. She needed him to hurt her again so she could justify the great wound his slight had made inside of her. The blush was running to her cheeks and her lips threatened to quiver. More than anything she wanted to leave, but she found herself fixed to the spot.

"Sansa..."

"What is it?"

"Are you sure you want to marry some Tyrell or other?"

"What I _want_?"

"Aye, what you want, girl. I wouldn't leap to give it up were I you."

"I have no choice."

"All right."

"All right?"

"All right."

"What does that mean?"

"It seems to me, _your grace_, that you finally do have a choice. I'd rather you not piss it away on another betrothal that makes me sick to my stomach."

"Oh... very well, this is about you?"

"It's about you, girl, don't be foolish."

"This... marriage is the very inverse of foolishness. I wish I could be foolish."

"Go be foolish. You're the queen."

"It does not work that way."

He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her in close, their torsos now touching. He leaned in close, so close she thought that maybe he would kiss her. But instead he spoke, "Make sure he's worthy, girl. I won't stand and watch this time if he isn't."

Sansa's heart was racing and the sincerity she saw in his eyes stirred a queer sort of life in the place that moments before he had made empty. She found herself reaching her hands out and placing them on his chest. This time, he was unflinching. Everything in her told her to lose his gaze, told her she was in danger. She could not listen. "What _will_ you do?"

"I'll kill him." Sandor Clegane made to leave.

"I did send for you," she called after him.

He stopped, nodding, "That you did."

"I need you to get stronger."

"Stronger?"

"Yes. You'll need to be much stronger to be my sworn shield."

:::


End file.
